


Be Sad With Me

by WinterTheWriter



Series: The Oncoming Slut [7]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Post-ROTD, Sex as therapy (tm), Smut, Spoilers, Unhealthy thinking patterns, can be read as established or first time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:47:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28593495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterTheWriter/pseuds/WinterTheWriter
Summary: The Doctor's been through so much, and Yaz doesn't need to know all the details to know how to help.
Relationships: The Doctor/Yasmin Khan, Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Series: The Oncoming Slut [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1263446
Comments: 5
Kudos: 49





	Be Sad With Me

**Author's Note:**

> from the ashes i rise
> 
> feast, my pretties. feast

“It’s okay to be sad,” Yaz says, and the Doctor feels her gaze on the back of her neck like a physical thing. “…But you don’t have to be sad alone.” 

The Doctor hears her step closer, a soft rustle of fabric, and then suddenly Yaz is holding her hand so she inhales shakily and makes an attempt at vulnerability. “Don’t know how to do it otherwise,” she admits lowly, her vision blurring the longer she stares at the closed TARDIS doors. 

It feels like only yesterday Ryan and Graham came bursting into her life and she needs so, so many more tomorrows with them but — well. It /is/ tomorrow for them. Out of time. Too late. Really does seem like a rubbish pattern of her life, doesn’t it? But they gave her a sense of /family/ she hasn’t had in centuries, such genuine love and the easy intimacy of relatives, of bonds thicker than blood and stronger than any terrible evil the universe has to offer. 

And now it’s gone, because the Doctor’s too thick to pilot her own ship properly. All those decades of prison and this might be what breaks her. 

“Let me show you,” Yaz insists quietly. The Doctor doesn’t have it in her to disagree. 

~

It’s a silent, numb walk through dark and somber corridors to the Doctor’s bedroom. Even her ship seems down about the recent changes. But Yaz holds her hand the whole time, sure and firm, even though the Doctor can now see the tear tracks staining her companion’s cheeks. A voice that sounds like — Clara? Rose? tells her she should probably say something comforting but the words don’t make it past her throat. 

“I’ve been sad loads of times,” Yaz starts, pulling the Doctor into her en suite, “and I know you have, too. Almost definitely more than I have, even.” Sadness isn’t a competition, the Doctor wants to say. She doesn’t. “But the point is, I know a thing or two about coping with it. /Healthily/.” 

The Doctor’s not quite sure she’s earned that pointed look. 

“Right, healthy, yes,” she nods, watching Yaz drop her hand to bustle around her bathroom and pluck out whatever she sees fit from the cabinets like she’s been here before. It’s not as invasive as it possibly would be any other day. Then again, after decades of having her every movement watched and recorded and controlled, she supposes nothing is invasive anymore. And what a horrid thought that is. “Sorry, bit lost — why are we in my bathroom?” 

“‘Cos you’re taking a bath.”

“…I am?”

“You are.” Yaz turns and flashes her a small grin that’s no less radiant for the sadness behind it. She waves a purple bath bomb in her direction. /When did I get that?/ “You’ve had a rough go at it from what you’ve told us. Or hinted. Space jail and such.” Yaz falters and gives the Doctor a look with something like pity, swallowing thickly. The Doctor averts her eyes. “—nothin’ helps quite like a nice, hot bath and some TLC.”  
~

As it turns out, she is exactly right. The Doctor, per Yaz’s instructions, spends a good thirty minutes in the lavender and chamomile scented bath, bubbles popping pleasantly on the exposed skin of her shoulders. It’s /heavenly/, with the near-scalding water filling the bathroom with steam and warming her to the core. She really should do this more often. 

Yaz had hinted, before leaving, that this wasn’t all she had planned. The Doctor’s hearts thump quicker than usual at the image of Yaz waiting for her to finish in her bedroom. All those years with no personal contact has her rather /itching/ for it. So, unable to bear the anticipation any longer, the Doctor forces herself to drain the tub and climb out. She quickly wraps herself in a plush white towel, holding it tight against her chest with one hand as she pushes open the bathroom door with the other. 

It feels so unusually /inappropriate/ like this. Situations like these with her companions are not exactly new, but there’s a new type of intimacy in being the first - and possibly only - one naked. Towel or not, the Doctor feels just as exposed. Her lips purse and she clears her throat to get Yaz’s attention. Yaz snaps her head up from the thick book she’d been reading on the bed - Dancing with Drakhs, classic - and meets her eyes with a soft smile that instantly makes the Doctor feel better. 

But not — not much better. There’s something still /off/, still uncomfortable and uneasy in the Doctor’s gut as she returns Yaz’s smile with a small one of her own and perches on the end of her bed, the towel tightly clutched to her. She’s not uncomfortable with /Yaz/, per se, and she absolutely intends for this towel to come off around her (if Yaz wants) but — well, she doesn’t know. She used to like not knowing. 

Can’t say she does at the moment. 

Of course Yaz, brilliant and perceptive and so utterly gorgeous with it, picks up on the tension. She dog-ears her page like the book’s hers to keep (it is) and puts it aside, scooting down from the head of the bed to kneel next to the Doctor and tenderly place a warm hand on her bare shoulder. It’s almost too distracting. “Do you want me to leave?” Yaz asks softly. 

“No! No, not at all,” the Doctor rushes to reassure, her stomach going all fluttery at the obvious relief Yaz shows. “I’m just, er…really, very much not used to this. I’m usually the one taking care of the other. Kinda my thing, not sure if you noticed.” It’s an attempt at a joke and Yaz purposefully lets it fall flat. 

“Everyone needs a balance of care in their lives, Doctor,” she says, her smile gone as she looks seriously into the Doctor’s eyes. Her hand stays where it is, thumb rubbing the bath-heated skin. “It’s as important as food or water. Your generosity, the — the /kindness/ you show the worst of the universe, that’s not your job or your role or what have you. It’s a choice you make. Let me choose to show you what it’s like, yeah?” 

“And what about you, hmm? Graham and Ryan leaving hurt you too, I /know/ it. Yaz, I’ve been sad a lot more than you, you said so yourself! I’ve much more experience—,”

“Sadness isn’t a competition.” That shuts the Doctor up. For all the years and planets between them, she’s once again struck by just how similar she and Yaz are. “And like I said earlier,” Yaz continues, a hint of teasing in her tone as the hand on the Doctor’s shoulder skates briefly down her arm and makes her shiver, “I think - years aside - I may still be just a /bit/ better at coping than you.” 

“…Right. Well—.”

“And this is about more than just them!” Her tone goes almost pleading with its sudden intensity as she grabs both of the Doctor’s hands, making her twist on the edge of the bed to face her properly. “/Space jail/. You haven’t even told me how long you were there. I /think/, after everything you’ve been through, you’ve earned some time as the center of attention. Besides, helping other people is how I help myself.”

“Doing — whatever you have planned with me will help you stop being sad?” It’s not like the Doctor doesn’t understand how altruism works, but she truly can’t fathom how fussing over a traumatized ancient alien would comfort /anyone/. 

“No, but it’ll help me /process/ my sadness, and hopefully it’ll do the same for you. Either way, though, the point of this is we’re sad /together/, and you internalize that it’s okay to need help.” 

The Doctor gives her a wry little grin and squeezes her hands. “Lot of buzzwords in there, I’m noticing.” 

Yaz laughs and squeezes her hands right back. “I’ve had a /lot/ of therapy.” They share their laughter for another moment, heavy as it may be, before the Doctor falters and sucks her teeth. 

“Well then! How d’you want me?” As tempting as it is to argue with Yaz over what she does and doesn’t deserve, the Doctor honestly doesn’t have the strength to do so. It’s been /so long/ since any attention didn’t bring pain (“discipline”) along with it, and it’s been even longer since the Doctor’s been allowed to simply exist. Maybe Yaz is right. Maybe she /has/ earned this. Regardless, she’s still going to go into this with all the gusto new endeavors deserve. 

Yaz smirks at the innuendo and makes a quick, sweeping look down the Doctor’s toweled form, seeming to delight in the automatic way it makes her blush (rubbish cheeks these are, always betraying her, never listening), before releasing her hands and slipping from the bed. The air is instantly thick with a new type of tension but there’s still that undercurrent of care, of comfort. Call her fickle, but the Doctor can no longer remember why she was ever uneasy at all. “Lay back on the bed for me. And — if you wouldn’t mind losing the towel…?” 

Her tone leaves plenty of space for the Doctor to decline, but it’s unneeded. It’s still odd to be the naked one, but she feels better about it now. Better with Yaz, as most things are. The Doctor makes quick work of the towel, tossing it carelessly to the floor, before scooting back to lay on the bed, head on pillow. It’s an even more vulnerable position, but she trusts Yaz enough to try and she’s tired enough to want it anyways. There’s a sharp intake of breath as Yaz gazes at her, making the Doctor shiver and fight the irrational urge to squirm. “Just going to stand there?” the Doctor asks with a nervous sort of laugh. 

“Might do,” Yaz replies, low and breathy. It sobers the Doctor up /quick/, makes her flush hot instead. “Doctor, /look at you/.” The reverence in her voice is almost too much. As it is, the Doctor isn’t able to force a word out to reply. She just stares at the ceiling and /breathes/, flexing her fingers and toes against the plush duvet under her. “Any time you want to stop, if I do /anything/ to make you uncomfortable, let me know, yeah? This is for you, /about/ you.” 

It’s so strange to be on the receiving end of such gentle handling, to the point where the Doctor has to push down unnecessary indignation threatening to make her laugh. She’s hurt, yes, and she’s been through a lot, but she’s not /fragile/. Never fragile. Right? Right. No human needs to —

“Doctor? I see that look on your face. I /want to do this/. You are helping me by letting me help you. Yeah?” 

She swallows thickly and closes her eyes at the unexpected sting pricking the back of them. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “….Thank you, Yaz.” 

“Don’t thank me yet. Just — all I want you to do is lay back, close your eyes, and /feel/. Can you do that for me? Just let me do all the heavy lifting and focus on feeling good.” 

The task sounds more gargantuan than is probably healthy, which means Yaz definitely has a point about all this. Still, the Doctor licks her dry lips and nods with a few deep breaths to settle herself. Her instinct tells her this is wrong, that she doesn’t deserve this, that Yaz secretly wishes the Doctor would stop her and do all the work herself instead. It takes so much more of herself than expected to entertain the idea that Yaz is simply telling the truth. 

Yaz starts off small. With her eyes closed, the first contact still makes the Doctor jump slightly, but she settles easily enough when she realizes it’s only Yaz’s fingertips stroking over her cheekbones, tracing the contours of her jaw, her lips. The bed squeaks as Yaz climbs on, straddling the Doctor’s hips and leaning down to kiss her softly. This, the Doctor can absolutely get behind. Kissing Yaz is brilliant. Her lips are supple and firm, moving with the ease of experience and no hint of a rush at all. Meanwhile, her hands continue their path down the sides of the Doctor’s neck, a ghosting touch that makes her shudder. Yaz quirks a smile against the Doctor’s lips and kisses away from them, following the same path as her fingers. 

There’s still the temptation for the Doctor to lurch up and pull Yaz back to her mouth, to flip them over and hurry things along, but she’s able to resist it — though only just. Every touch is magnified by all the years she’s gone without it, so achingly long with nothing but herself. The thought makes her breath hitch. Yaz kindly ignores it. Now, those gentle fingers skate down the Doctor’s arms with an agonizing slowness that makes her bite her lip, each arm, hand, and finger being subsequently kissed. It feels like worship. It feels like forgiveness. It feels like - everything the Doctor isn’t supposed to have, but she’s having it anyways. Yaz is giving it to her /anyways/. Her eyes sting with unshed tears again and she inhales shakily to keep them back. Not yet, not now. 

Every time the Doctor thinks Yaz is about to hurry her pace or add in a bite or two to mix things up, she’s proven wrong. The gentleness of her touch is as unwavering as her attention, intense enough to make the Doctor tremble for more reason than one. It’s been so long, it’s been so /long/, and it’s all so /much/. When Yaz strokes the soft curves of the Doctor’s breasts and trails her tongue around each nipple, loving and achingly tender with it, a tear finally escapes the Doctor’s closed eyes as she moans out a shuddering breath and arches towards her. Firm, affectionate hands press her back down. The denial almost makes her sob, her hands twisting in the duvet before she forces them to relax. “That’s it,” Yaz praises softly, lips brushing against her left nipple enough to spark pleasure through her. “Thank you, Doctor, that’s it…” 

“/Yaz/,” she grits out around the lump in her throat, but Yaz only shushes her and comes back up to press feather-light kisses on every line of tension in her face. It makes everything worse and so, so much better. 

By the time Yaz has made her way to the Doctor’s inner thighs, they’re soaked with sweat and slick, the muscles jumping at every touch. Her head is thrown back in desperate want and need but her body is as relaxed as she’s able to keep it, trying to merely /feel/ as she’s been instructed. But oh, she’s so /wet/ and aching, her clit throbbing with every beat of her hearts and her hole fluttering around nothing. Yaz had been /painstaking/ in her quest, covering every inch of the Doctor’s body with the softest touches and even softer kisses. It’s as magnificent and intoxicating as it is almost unbearably intense, lighting up every cell in her. Who knew her companion had such infuriating patience? 

“I’ve got you,” Yaz murmurs, breath hot and humid against the already-damp lips of the Doctor’s sex, before — /finally/ — she leans in and licks them open in a broad, slow sweep. The answering ragged moan is taken as the encouragement it is, and she’s rewarded with another lap of that sinful tongue against her. It dips just barely into her cunt, tasting the source of her, before she circles up to lave attention on her aching clit. 

Firm, precise circles exactly how she needs it. Yaz listens to each and every tell the Doctor’s body has to offer and uses it against her in the best of ways. She hums against the sensitive flesh, sucking the nub into her mouth and rolling her tongue against it as she does. Two of those perfect, /long/ fingers push into her, making the Doctor’s eyes snap open only to roll back in her head with a loud, wanton sound, hips twitching towards the contact. This really isn’t going to take long. She’d already been on edge after everything and now, after all Yaz is /doing/…

It’s maybe a good thing Yaz took her time after all. 

The torturous pace from before is gone now, but only barely. Yaz fucks her fingers into the Doctor with a steady, deep-pressing rhythm, fast enough to make her grunt but slow enough to make her whine. All the while that hot, sinful tongue draws unknowable shapes and words against her clit, bringing her closer and closer with every play. It’s a molten, needy type of pleasure, the type that feels like its own kind of dirty, and the Doctor is utterly helpless to it. The sounds she makes are ripped out of her, guttural and unrestrained as her head thrashes from side to side on her pillow. 

Just as the Doctor considers outright begging for more, Yaz seems to read her mind and doubles her efforts, no longer trying to draw things out. Her fingers curl and press with every twisting thrust, unerringly against the spot she needs them on, her mouth a wet inferno as she licks and sucks and laps at her, daring to hum and let it vibrate right up the Doctor’s spine. It’s all building so fast, so /fast/ after so many minutes of slowness, after so many years of nothing at all. 

Pleasure and pressure build relentlessly inside the Doctor’s core, making her twist and squirm and cry out for more, more, /more/, pleas and praises tumbling haphazardly from her open, panting mouth. Tighter and tighter it coils, until the Doctor /is/ sobbing, until she’s crying out with the pleasure of it all, the safety surrounding her, until it finally /snaps/ in a blinding flash of cell-shaking heat. The Doctor is barely aware of her own shouts as the waves of her orgasm crash and roll through her, cresting over and over like it’s trying to drown her in its depths. 

Yaz works her through it, as patient and devoted as ever, and as the stars of the universe dance in front of the Doctor’s eyes, she swears she loves her for it. 

She swears she loves Yasmin Khan. 

~

When they’re both cleaned up, Yaz sheds her own clothes (finally!) and crawls into bed, pulling the Doctor into her arms without bothering to ask first. It’s warm and so comfortable, so comforting, the Doctor thinks Yaz may be just a little bit like home to her now. 

Or maybe she always has been. Admittedly, the Doctor’s always been rather thick with things like this. Nevertheless, she curls into Yaz’s side and stops trying to act as big as she is, stops trying to make a point about herself with everything she does. The tears are still coming, dripping down her cheeks and leaking onto Yaz’s collarbone, but they carry out some of the weight in her chest with them. 

Neither of them speak.

The Doctor strives to learn something new every day — always has — and this time, with Yaz, /her/ Yaz, she thinks she’s learning her favorite lesson thus far. 

Being sad is not forbidden, nor is it always destined to be lonely. Sometimes, if you’re really, truly lucky, you’ll find someone to be sad with. 

And that’s not sad at all.


End file.
